Brandon Abroad: The Maharaja's Treasure

By Al Morin

Brandon Fletcher and his family are on holiday in India – a country rich in history and legend. One particular narrative concerns the fate of an 18th century Maharaja, a noble king cursed to spend eternity as a humble insect.

Surely just another made-up story.

But Brandon thinks otherwise. Convinced that the tale is

• Language: English
• Publisher: Acorn
• Release date: Feb 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9781912615094

Book preview

Chapter 1

Welcome to India!

My family and I stood outside the busy airport arrivals building. Four thousand miles away, our friends in London were bundled up against another cold February day. Not me. I was wearing shorts and a T-shirt.

Our taxi driver, Rajinder, had just finished securing most of our luggage to the car’s metal roof rack. Rajinder was about 30 years old. He had a neatly-trimmed, black moustache and beard, and he wore a tightly-wrapped orange turban. His car was small and compact, black with a bright yellow roof.

Except for the colours, it’s another Doc Hudson, said my sister Hayley, who at thirteen was three years older than me.

I disagreed. Sheriff. That’s who it looks like.

No way, Brandon. It’s definitely Doc Hudson.

Look at the mouth. Sheriff all the way!

"What are they talking about?" asked Dad, wiping his glasses on his shirt before putting them back on.

I haven’t a clue, yawned Mum.

"Cars!" said Natalie, who was seven.

"We can see that," Dad said.

Natalie folded her arms in disbelief at our parents’ ignorance. "No, Cars, as in the movie."

The taxi had a simple flat front with a large, mouthy grill and two headlamps like cartoon eyes. It didn’t really look like any of the characters from the animated film, but my older sister and I couldn’t help getting into these stupid arguments… especially when we were tired.

My taxi is an Ambassador, said Rajinder proudly. (He sounded like Mr Bhatti, whose shop near our house fixed shoes and made spare keys.) After my wife and four children, it is my most valued possession!

It’s a classic in the world of automobiles, said our father, finding space for my small suitcase in the car’s tiny boot.

I think it’s cute, said Natalie. "What do you think, Mum?"

Mum’s hand failed to stifle another yawn. I think I’m about ready for bed.

Then what are we waiting for? Dad said. Let’s get to our hotel!

Despite being short on energy from the long trip, I clambered into the front seat, next to Rajinder. My parents and older sister squeezed into the back, with Natalie sitting on Dad’s lap.

Seat belts? my mother asked.

Our driver glanced into his rear-view mirror. I am sorry, Mrs Fletcher, but they are broken. He then gave an embarrassed smile. Welcome to India!

"We’re okay back here, Mum said. It’s Brandon in the front I’m worried about."

Yes, he’s our third favourite child, Dad quipped.

Dad— I protested.

There is no need to worry, Rajinder pledged, starting the engine. I come from a family of excellent drivers! One of my cousins drives for a notorious Mumbai gangster!

Rajinder accelerated quickly, leaving the long queue of other Ambassadors. Holding tightly onto the belt-less seat, I looked out the front window, squinting in the bright mid-afternoon sunlight.

Once out of the airport, we drove – on the left, like in Britain – along a wide, two-lane road, joining the crush of countless other vehicles. More black and yellow taxis. Regular passenger cars. Old, smoke-belching buses. Brightly-painted lorries - covered in tigers, peacocks, many-armed Indian gods and intricate patterns. Motorised rickshaws that resembled three-wheeled golf buggies, two wheels in the back, one in the front.

The air was filled with the jarring sounds of revved engines, squealing brakes, skidding tires…and honking horns. Everybody was using the horn. Out of anger. Out of frustration. Out of simple, good fun.

This is wild! Hayley said, sounding like she was on a funfair ride.

Too wild for my taste! shouted Mum over the deafening noise.

Drivers drove fast. Cutting off other drivers. Barely avoiding fatal, head-on collisions as they tried to overtake. At times it was a bit scary!

Joining this main road from side streets were other vehicles, their spinning wheels creating clouds of choking dust. Confidently weaving in and out of this chaos were dozens of motor scooters – mostly ridden by men, but some by women.

Rajinder – liberally using his horn, his foot moving from accelerator to brake and back to accelerator – remained calm the entire time. (Though he wasn’t untouched by the madness infecting his fellow countrymen. On one occasion, he steered off the road onto the bumpy ground at the side of the road – only to merge back into the traffic with the miserable gain of one car length!)

Oh my God! shouted Hayley, pointing left. Moving up alongside our taxi was a blue scooter – with six people! A father drove, with two small boys sitting in front of him. A young daughter sat behind him, and behind her was a mother carrying a tiny baby. Except for the baby, they all looked at us and smiled. The people-packed scooter surged ahead, disappearing into the blur of dust and colour and noise.

"Six… said an incredulous Natalie, … on one scooter!"

And nobody wearing a helmet, Mum added, always a stickler for health and safety.

As I say – welcome to India! Rajinder laughed. My country is a strange and wonderful place!

I still can’t believe it, Natalie persisted. Six of them!

I saw them first, gloated Hayley. "It’s my record."

Records were made to be broken, said Dad.

No way! said Hayley, sounding very confident. "If any of you lot do beat six, then – then, I won’t be sarcastic for an entire week!"

My parents, younger sister and I cheered at the thought of that ever happening.

Rajinder was right about being an excellent driver. Emerging unscathed from the main road, we found ourselves in a busy shopping area. Trucks and buses were exchanged for people riding bicycles or walking.

Small stores lined both sides of the street. Shopkeepers were selling everything: basic groceries, colourful carpets and cloth, mobile phone accessories, shoes, sparkly metal bracelets and other jewellery, belts and leather jackets, pots and pans, fresh fruit and vegetables.

After a few blocks, Rajinder turned down a quiet side street. He pulled over and parked next to a white, three-storey building. It was part old mansion and part block of flats – with a touch of fairy tale palace.

Here we are, said Dad.

On the wall of the building above the door was a large rectangular sign: ‘THE MAHARAJA’S TREASURE’.

It’s only three stars, Hayley commented, noticing the star rating over the name.

"And your point, young lady?" Dad asked.

Well, you know… one star is a place with cockroaches and wine stains on the carpet, and… oh, never mind… she yawned. Three stars will do…

Now, I felt my body completely slump. That wasn’t surprising. We had left our house in London yesterday afternoon: the walk to the train station and journey to the airport, the long wait in the departures lounge, and the 11-hour flight were tiring enough. This final trip in the traffic from Hell had nearly finished me off. Struggling to stay awake, I started to open the car door.

Brandon, look out! Natalie cried.

Walking down the road was a cow. Slow-moving, but unyielding. It was white and muscular with two dangerous-looking horns. I closed the door quickly, allowing the powerful creature to pass. Still sitting in the car, we watched it move away, ambling down the road like it owned the place, its tail a fly-swatting pendulum.

The cow suddenly stopped. It turned its heavy head in our direction… and stared right at me! Mesmerised, I stared back, gazing into those large brown, almost human eyes. Then the cow turned its head and continued down the street, disappearing around the next corner.

A cow… said an amazed Natalie, … in the middle of the road!

Rajinder flashed his already famous white smile. Yes. I keep telling you – Welcome to India!

Chapter 2

Is There Really a Treasure?

Our suitcases and rucksacks were unloaded. Dad paid Rajinder, who smiled, folding his hands together with gratitude. After arrangements were made to collect us tomorrow morning, we said goodbye to Rajinder, who got in his car and drove away.

He was nice, said Natalie.

And a great driver! I added. What lightning-quick reflexes!

Yeah, he’d be amazing at Minibeast Grand Prix. That was Hayley’s new favourite phone app. Tiny creatures raced against one other on an obstacle-filled, oval track. My sister’s avatar, feisty Ladybird, had just cleaned up on Level 1, having no problem defeating Bumblebee, Spider, Cockroach, and a few other dim-witted bugs. But Level 2’s more formidable opponents included Praying Mantis, master of cunning and speed.

How much did you pay the driver, Dad? I asked, interested in most things numerical.

Three-hundred rupees.

Wow! Natalie gasped, as we walked up the steps of the hotel. That’s a lot.

Not really, Nat. Three-hundred rupees is only about £2.50 for us. But Rajinder probably could buy fruit and vegetables for a week with that money.

"The same would cost us about £20," added Mum.

That didn’t seem fair. I recently watched a TV programme about this mega-rich football player who owned Lamborghinis and had mansions all over the world. Near the end of the documentary, he was travelling in his chauffeur-driven limousine to the airport. The car went right past a mountain of rubbish where barefoot children wearing tattered clothing were collecting plastic and metal to sell so they could buy a bowl of rice!

It was depressing to think about, so I changed the subject. "How many people are there in India?"

Dad scratched his chin thoughtfully. Well, there’s Rajinder, that’s one… and those people on the scooter make seven… and that couple that just walked past us, that’s nine… and—

Dad! Natalie and I both shouted. Sometimes Dad could be really annoying.

Aha! Hayley exclaimed. Finally! Something our clever father doesn’t know.

Then Dad spoke again, this time sounding like a robot in one of those old-fashioned science fiction movies. India is home to 1.3 billion people… another 15 million Indians live abroad, including over one million in the UK… 350 million people in India earn less than £1.50 a day... 80% of the population is Hindu while Muslims make up—

"Okay, Dad, Hayley said. You’ve made your point!"

Like we’ve said time and time again, our dad reads too much!

We entered the hotel lobby.

"It’s not too shabby," admitted Hayley.

Compared to the outside, the hotel’s interior appeared very modern, even posh. On the lobby’s marble